Wonder is involuntary praise.
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.